Carved Up
by tielan
Summary: There's nowhere left for Ronon to go. [WARNING: implied character death.]


**NOTES**: I asked for genfic prompts from my friends on LiveJournal and received this from Andrea: Teyla or Ronon; this quote: "_I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That's my dream. That's my nightmare. Crawling, slithering, along the edge of a straight razor, and surviving._"

**Carved Up**

He was never tired before.

The night sky on this planet glitters with light from the asteroid rings that circle it. McKay once explained how it all worked over dinner. Ronon remembers the meal for the unusual spiciness - pleasantly piquant - and the face McKay made as he tried the stew.

Rodney was good at making faces.

Ronon doesn't stare up at the overhead lights. It ruins his night vision and he can't afford that. Wraith have excellent night-vision.

All he has is determination, hatred, and a need to kill them.

Two are shot down, easy targets, but the third nearly gets him. The blast skims the edge of his right shoulder, numbing the muscles. Luckily, he can shoot just as well with his left - and does.

The numb shoulder aches as he cuts off their hands at the wrist.

He's getting careless. He was never careless before.

--

Dinner is a small animal, skinned and spitted. Ronon eats it quickly, then rolls himself up to sleep with his hand on his weapon. He has a few hours before the hunt starts again anyway.

Regrets are useless, but he regrets not killing Michael the first time. Or the second time. Or the third time.

Exile from Atlantis then would have been better than this now.

He wakes hungry, with the odd memory of watching Elizabeth Weir at breakfast one morning, consuming her toast one bite at a time. Next to her, he felt like a _hragath_ in _kinnet_, crunching through the milk-and-grain cereal mix. At least he used a spoon.

Ronon lingers on the memory of her smile that morning, warm and open. It's a better memory than the grimace that stretched across her face as the Wraith drained life and living from her.

Wraith have no need of spoons.

--

The edge of this knife is blunt and he sharpens it against a whetstone as he crouches beneath a bush and waits for the Wraith to come for him. Rain drips steadily outside, an unending patter of droplets, occasionally interrupted by a gust of wind.

It's not at all like the planet where he first met the Atlanteans, hot and bright, but the memory emerges all the same.

Sheppard and Teyla facing him back, unafraid. Sheppard's offer, made plain and bold, Teyla's compassion and her respect when she realised he was a runner.

An end to running. A chance to fight back. A new start. A new unit.

Always the Wraith.

He drags the blade against the stone with more force than he intends. The tip slips on the downward stroke and slices open his thumb.

It hurts, but pain is a constant anyway. Ronon tucks away the knife, packs away the whetstone, and binds the wound tight.

Blood leaves a trail for the Wraith to follow.

--

Another night, another planet. This one is out on the edge of the galaxy, out of the regular flight paths of the hive ships.

He ran for seven years before Sheppard brought him to Atlantis. He lived in Atlantis five years before the Wraith brought the city to its knees. The city of the Ancestors belongs to the Wraith, now, her inhabitants drained, tagged, or crippled so resistance is twice as hard.

Ronon's a runner again, and this time, there's nowhere left to go.

_Stay alive and fight back,_ was Sheppard's last advice. _I'll do what I can here._ Crippled fingers dangled limply by the older man's thighs as his silent captor came to haul him away, one more test subject for the Wraith.

As Ronon lopes along the river's edge, the gurgle and murmur of the water masking his footfalls, he wonders if Sheppard managed to kill Teyla after all.

Death would have been a relief for Teyla in the end.

--

Ronon twists his ankle in the snow, and stumbles. Clumsy. Stupid. Lucky.

He's just looking for shelter, not actively running from the Wraith. He climbs up, cold and damp, with his palms stinging from the cuts and scrapes. It's a long limp up through the hills to the hut that's both sanctuary and prison.

Inside, he hunches over, staring at his hands and shivering with exhaustion.

Atlantis made him soft and sluggish, and the Wraith are carving him up, piece by piece. He wants it to be over, but he can't lie down and die.

It's his nightmare - unending survival, with only the bleak memory of what used to be, the promise of what might have been. He's weary of the run, of the hunt, even of the hatred.

Ronon wants to go home.

There's nowhere left to go.

- **fin** -


End file.
